Authors: A. D. Garrett
Believe No One (48 page)
He nodded again. âYes, ma'am, Deputy Hicks.'
The only truth is the evidence.
N
ICK
F
ENNIMORE
Fennimore sat at the desk in his hotel suite in St Louis. He had delivered his lecture, done some networking at the symposium and now he was catching up with the case. He had received notification that Laney Dawalt and Sharla Jane Patterson, the last two victims, were on the spy equipment Elliott had stolen from Sharla Jane's trailer. The spy camera in Sharla Jane's bedroom had recorded an angry exchange between her and McIntyre: Riley was late home and he'd organized an end-of-term treat. McIntyre railed against the child's lack of respect, and grizzled about how unappreciated he was. To appease him, Sharla Jane agreed to take part in a âsex game'; it was this that the boy had walked in on, the night Sharla Jane was murdered. Riley Patterson, like Billy Dawalt, was still missing.
Meanwhile, in Scotland, police had searched Fergus Elliott's croft and found a computer hidden away in a secret cubbyhole. The drive was encrypted â analysis would be impossible. But they kept looking, and behind a false wall in the basement they discovered videotape and digital recordings dating back sixteen years, all the way to the sexual assault and murder of Isla Bain in Hawick. She was probably their first victim. The âcollection' was meticulously labelled with dates and names: all of the United States victims were catalogued â along with fifteen more.
Their timeline had established that Elliott, a sound engineer, was on tour with a band in Japan and Australia when Rachel and Suzie disappeared, and Josh had confirmed that Elliott was not the man who'd drugged him. Fennimore opened a copy of Fergus Elliott's passport photograph and displayed it beside an e-fit of the man who had drugged and robbed Josh. The student's assailant was handsome, dark-haired, bearded, with full lips and a neat nose. Elliott was narrow-faced and sandy-haired, with a sharp nose and pale, thin lips.
So, the question remained: who did steal Josh's laptop â and why? Josh had hesitated when he'd asked about backing up data. Was there something Josh
hadn't
backed up â something he wouldn't risk to external hard drives or the Cloud? Something, perhaps, that Josh Brown was ashamed of?
He stopped. This wasn't about Josh; it was about Rachel and Suzie. He opened the image his anonymous emailer had sent. The slim girl in an orange dress, stepping out on a Paris street.
He was still staring at his computer an hour later when he heard a knock at his hotel room door. He closed the laptop before answering. It was Kate Simms, and she came bearing gifts. The first was a half of Jack Daniel's, the second was an update from Police Scotland.
As she spoke, she poured an inch of bourbon into a tooth glass and watched him take a swallow. âThere are tiny spots of semen on the dress Isla Bain was wearing at the time she was murdered,' she said. âOf course, back then, the sample was too small to be tested, but the evidence was in good condition when they retrieved it.'
âThey got a usable profile?'
She nodded. âThey'll compare it with DNA samples from Elliott and McIntyre. But I think we already know it's them.'
âIt'll help her parents, knowing that those men aren't still walking around,' he said.
She took a sip of bourbon. âI'm sorry the investigation didn't help you,' she said.
He nodded. âI was hoping you'd've heard from Interpol about the photograph by now.'
âI have,' she said, though she seemed reluctant to admit it. âIt
was
taken in Paris. But, Nick, it doesn't mean that the girl in the picture is Suzie, or that obsessing over it will help you find her.'
âI know that.' He was lying, because he was sure that the girl
was
Suzie, and just as certain that the picture would lead him to her, but he would lie and lie again, if it gave him one small clue.
âThen tell me you weren't staring at the damn thing on your netbook when I knocked at the door.'
âAnd if I was?'
âYou won't find her by guesswork, Nick. What is it you say? “The only truth is the evidence. It won't lie to you. And unlike witnesses, it won't change its mind.”'
âI believe that to be true,' he said. âBut you have to follow the evidence â even if it looks dodgy or unpromising, even if it leads nowhere. And right now that photograph is all the evidence I've got, Kate.'
âIt
could
be evidence, or it could be just another snapshot from a sadist who likes to watch you suffer.'
âI'll bear that in mind,' he said, holding out his hand, trying to still the tremor in it.
She took a folded sheet of paper out of her shoulder bag and handed it to him. The upper half was a Paris street map, the lower, an enhanced image of the roller door of the van that was parked a hundred yards from the couple walking along the street.
âYou were right,' Simms said. âIt was a gang tag. And it gave them a locality.'
The district meant nothing to Fennimore, but a quick Google search would change that. He opened his laptop, revealing the e-fit of the man who robbed Josh.
âWhat's this?' she asked.
âNot sure. Does he look familiar to you?'
She leaned in for a closer look and he could smell the liquor warm on her breath. âI suppose so â in a generic way. But it's an e-fit, Nick,' she said. âE-fits work from generic characteristics. What's this about?'
âJosh sent it,' he said. He stared at the screen, wondering how best to frame the lie. âThey met in a bar; he was asking questions about Rachel and Suzie.'
âReporter,' she said, swivelling the laptop so she could see the screen more clearly.
âI don't think so,' he said.
âPeople asking those sorts of questions â it usually
is
a reporter.'
Fennimore shook his head. The man who drugged and robbed Josh had risked a five-year prison sentence in doing what he did. Surely, even a hack of the lowest order wouldn't chance that. But he couldn't tell Kate that: the theft wasn't linked to their case, the files on the computer were secure. He wanted to ask Josh face to face what could possibly be on the hard drive that would make a man risk drugging and robbing him, and he didn't want to scare the student off.
Simms stared at him for a few moments. âThere's more to this than you're saying, isn't there? Let me guess â Josh's shady past?'
He didn't answer.
âI thought so.' She eyed him solemnly for a few moments. âAll right, have it your way.' She studied the e-fit again. âBut why did you ask
me
if he's familiar â d'you think
we
know him?'
Kate Simms always asked good questions.
âI wish I knew the answer to that.' He picked up the laptop and stared into the computer-generated eyes, wishing he could wrest the truth from them.
âNick, stop it â it's like that bloody picture all over again.'
His heart missed a beat, then started again, a slow, heavy pulse. That was it. He pulled up the image of the girl in Paris. By her side, an older man. How old? Thirty? Thirty-five?
Kate groaned, seeing the picture on the screen.
âLook,' he said, zooming in on the man's face, resizing the e-fit so that Simms could compare the two. âSame nose, same mouth. Okay, the hair is different, but that's easily changed.'
She shook her head, began to protest, but he said, âPlease, Kate. One more minute â let me show you.'
He opened Photoshop and imported the Paris photograph. âIf it is the same guy, he's lost some weight ⦠The hair is shorter ⦠Add a beard â¦' He quickly made the alterations. The likeness was striking.
She frowned, sat next to him. âIt could be,' she said. âBut, Nick, you could be fooling yourself.'
He threw up his hands. Scientific scepticism was usually his role.
âAll right,' he said. âIf it makes you feel better, I'll get an expert to do a comparison.'
âAnd if he agrees with you â what will you do then?' she asked.
âI'll find him,' he said. âAnd then I'll find Suzie.'
Also by
A. D. Garrett
A. D. Garrett
is the pseudonym for the writing collaboration of prize-winning thriller writer Margaret Murphy and forensic scientist Professor Dave Barclay. Margaret Murphy is the author of nine psychological thrillers. She lectures on writing and is a former Royal Literary Fund Writing Fellow. Professor Barclay is a world renowned forensics expert and senior lecturer in forensic science at Robert Gordon University, Aberdeen.
Everyone Lies
is their first collaboration. You can sign up for email updates
here
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